


You work at a smile and you go for a ride

by Builder



Series: Heroverse [26]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 13:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17002353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Steve presses his fingertips against the rounded swell of muscle, fitting perfectly into the grooves of Bucky’s scars.  They usually pretend the marks don’t exist.  It’s easy enough, especially with the cold weather; the metal arm and everything that goes along with it hidden beneath long-sleeved shirts.  It’s hard to ignore now, though, and Bucky can’t decide what’s more wrong: acknowledging it, or trying not to.  He doesn’t feel well.  And of course Steve already knows.





	You work at a smile and you go for a ride

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt from Tumblr. Find me @builder051

It’s one of those days, the kind Bucky hates the most.  The months since he showed up on Steve’s doorstep have slipped by, calendar pages turning in the breeze of subtle improvement.  He’s come a long way from the huddled mess he was during that first Christmas back together, locked in the bathroom, refusing to eat or sleep or speak.  Or do anything, really, except cling as closely as possible to Steve without actually touching him.

They do date nights now, Steve swinging by the office to pick Bucky up from work on Fridays.  He rides his motorcycle when the weather’s nice, letting Bucky sit behind him with his arms around his waist, but December is too late.  Too cold.  Bucky’s glad they’re in the car today, though.  For the space.  Even though he’d like to have Steve’s warm, solid back pressed up against his chest, he doesn’t think he’d be able to handle the contact.  

Bucky doesn’t feel well, and he doesn’t know why.  There’s no discrete pain in his head or his stomach, no heat rising in waves from his skin.  But everything’s all wrong.  Especially the little things, like the mist settling into condensation on the windshield.  The scrape of a paper bag blowing across the street grates on Bucky’s ears, and he winces when it crunches under one of the tires.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Steve says, glancing at Bucky.  “It’s just trash.  And with this weather, it probably blew out of a dumpster or something.  It might not even be litter.”

Even Steve is all wrong.  He’s too chatty, too positive.  Too…himself.  Bucky’s forcibly reminded of the skinny kid who used to wheeze at him that he was fine even as Bucky physically pushed him up the stairs and into bed.  Bucky may have come a long way, but Steve’s come longer.  He was perfect before the serum.  Now he’s the same, just more durable.  It’s Bucky who’s different.  And he doesn’t feel well.

Steve looks at him again as he turns into the parking lot of the little hole-in-the-wall Italian place that’s become their spot.  It’s just run down enough to remind them of what they used to be able to afford before the war, but the food’s good enough to satisfy them here and now.  He pulls in diagonally across two spaces and cuts the engine.  

It takes Bucky a long second to realize that this, too, is all wrong.  “What?” He cocks his head, and hair sticks to his temples.  Is it clammy sweat?  Or just the greasiness of the end of a humid day?  Is it bad that he can’t tell?

“What’s going on?”  Steve shifts in his seat without undoing his seatbelt.  “You ok?”

Of course he knows.  It’s not that Bucky’s hiding it from him.  He just isn’t projecting, either.  At least not on purpose.  “Nothing,” he mutters.  “I don’t…”  Bucky shakes his head.  “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Steve repeats.  He reaches slowly for Bucky’s shoulder, his fingers automatically finding the crease between flesh and metal, even under the padding of Bucky’s jacket.  “You feeling ok?”

“I…”  Bucky trails off, then clears his throat.  “Sorry.”  

Steve presses his fingertips against the rounded swell of muscle, fitting perfectly into the grooves of Bucky’s scars.  They usually pretend the marks don’t exist.  It’s easy enough, especially with the cold weather; the metal arm and everything that goes along with it hidden beneath long-sleeved shirts.  It’s hard to ignore now, though, and Bucky can’t decide what’s more wrong: acknowledging it, or trying not to.  He doesn’t feel well.  And of course Steve already knows.

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve says softly.  “Just come’ere.”  

It doesn’t matter that they’re in a car, and it’s not possible for Bucky to get much closer.  Or further away, for that mater.  But it’s what Steve used to say, back when Bucky came home tired and sore after a day on the docks.  “Come’ere, let me take care of your achy muscles,” he’d say, even if it was through the thickness of a stuffy nose.  It’s what he used to say when he pawed his way clumsily into Bucky’s arms after they were both too tipsy to care.  “Come’ere, give me a kiss, at least.”

It’s what Steve said the night Bucky came back.  “Come’ere.  Come inside.”  No hesitation.  No wariness.  No grudge.  

“It’s alright,” Steve says a third time.  He ghosts the backs of his knuckles across Bucky’s cheek.  Maybe testing for fever, or perhaps just being tender.  Then he grips Bucky’s other shoulder, rubbing in gentle circles with his thumbs.  “Do you wanna just go home?”

Bucky doesn’t.  But he does’t want to stay here, either.  He doesn’t want to go into the restaurant, or sit in the car, or do anything, at all, ever.  He doesn’t feel any better, but he thinks maybe he doesn’t feel quite so bad.  Something deep inside him has clicked, realizing that, out of a thousand possibilities, finally at least one of them is going right.  

“Sorry,” Bucky whispers, though he knows it’s probably annoying.  And that he doesn’t need to apologize in the first place.

“It’s ok.  I just care that you’re ok.”  Steve gives him a sympathetic smile.

“Hm.”  Bucky blinks and runs his tongue over his teeth as he finds the right words.  “I am, though.”

“Sorry?” Steve asks.  “Or ok?”

“Yeah.”  Bucky nods.  “Both.”


End file.
